Sunday, 19 June 2016

Whoever said brewing was romantic? Perhaps it’s the notion of brewing that’s romantic as opposed to the reality, in the same way we think of warfare as being ceaseless carnage where in fact those who have seen warfare suggest that it’s mainly boredom leavened with moments of pure fear and pain. And so looking at this photograph on a cold November morning in 2005, we can see Brasserie de Saint-Sylvestre, which makes one of the most memorable beers in Europe, Trois Mont, a beautiful and elegant beer that I have drank deeply of for many years. It’s a boring imagine, wet tarmac, red brick, metal tanks, steam from that morning’s boil while I suppose the sight of the local church at the end of the street does add some romance, in the sense of community. On the other hand, perhaps the snap of some of the brewing equipment does have a certain resonance in that envelope of feeling that I like to call my soul; it’s a vision of industry, a vision of intent, a vision of part of the journey that Trois Monts makes before it ends up in the glass. Some perhaps brewing is romantic after all.

Saturday, 4 June 2016

I’d forgotten about bitter, forgotten about that
citrusy-slow build of sweetness, the words of toffee and hop spice, the
crosstown traffic, the blistering bitterness, the dryness, the siren call of
English hops, the warp and waft of the raw materials, the full body, its common
touch (at which I have unforgivably sneered), the monstrosity, the leviathan,
the well water hoisted, the sheer sheerness of it all. And as I delved further
and further into my glass of Gadds No 3 I realised how much I’d forgotten about
bitter and how much I had missed it.